


five people go out on a warm, wet night

by thatviciousvixen



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), The Purge (2013), The Purge: Anarchy (2014)
Genre: Crossover, Horror, M/M, That's all I can warn you about here, Violence, but it's me so probably don't get too worried, is violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6131386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatviciousvixen/pseuds/thatviciousvixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rich man on a rooftop with a sniper rifle and no moral compass. A vigilante hero ready to protect the poor and defenceless. A soldier doubting his orders. A man with a machete and a burning hatred inside of him. A homeless girl in search of safety. </p>
<p>The odds are against them making it through the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five people go out on a warm, wet night

HUX

“Here is fine, Miller. Park the car anywhere, I don’t expect it to make it through the night anyway.”

The car, a shiny black Bentley, slides up to the curb and shifts into park. It seems out of place among the broken down brownstones and overcrowded tenement buildings surrounding them but Hux isn’t too concerned, by morning he suspects it’ll be a charred husk of its former self anyway. The cars he truly cares about are back at home, safe in his locked and barricaded garage until the night is over. As he slides out he grabs the rifle from the seat next to him, a lovely Blaser R93 Practical meticulously cared for and polished to a high shine. He snatches up his bag of ammunition and heads for the front door of the nearest building.

It’s nice being able to walk inside and ascend the stairs in total silence, no strange or filthy faces staring out at him from their apartment doors like last year. This year he wised up, bought the entire building and cleared it out in time for the holiday. He can enjoy the event in relative peace without having to hear the wailing and protests of the poor while he exercises his civic right as an American. 

He climbs the fifteen flights up to the roof, surprised to find Phasma already waiting for him.

“You’re early,” he hums, making sure the safety on the rifle is engaged before setting it down next to his feet. The door to the roof is carefully shut and locked, a thick iron bar slid across across to make sure they’ll have complete and total privacy for the night. He hates being disrupted. “I thought you and Lydia were celebrating your anniversary today?”

Phasma shrugs, plucking the cigarette from between her lips and ashing it over the side of the building. “Says she’s feeling too pregnant to get dressed up and go out. We’re going to try again Saturday if she’s feeling better, if not we’re going to wait until the baby comes.” If Hux remembers correctly the due date is only a month away. He tries desperately to keep up, but he just can’t be that friend that cares about baby showers and onesies and feeling swollen bellies for tiny kicks or whatever suburbanites with familial instincts do. 

“Where is she celebrating tonight?”

“At her mother’s,” Phasma responds, dropping the cigarette and stubbing it out with the toe of her boot. She always dresses like she’s ready for hand-to-hand combat, tonight in an olive-drab tank and camo leggings that show off the muscles of her calves and thighs quite nicely. Her boots are thick and steel-toed, which came in handy last year when they had to kick a door in to get away from some feisty revelers. “Her father just installed a new theatre system, they’re going to watch the live coverage.”

Hux nods, rolling up the sleeves of his blood-red dress shirt. He himself dresses for the holiday that it is; black slacks, a black vest and tie. His shoes are highly polished, and the only deviation from his precise outfit are the black leather gloves covering his hands. He doesn’t really need them, not when they’re acting under the full protection of the law. It’s not like he needs to cover his fingerprints. He just likes how they look against the trigger of his rifle, loves the smell of fresh leather holding the barrel of a gun. “We’ve got about twenty minutes.”

Phasma nods, checking the military-grade watch on her wrist before holding out both hands to Hux. “Shall we?” He nods, taking her hands in his own as they bow their heads. Together they pray.

“Blessed be our New Founding Fathers for letting us Purge and cleanse our souls. Blessed be America, a nation reborn.”

They lift their heads, grinning with a wicked sort of excitement as they part to retrieve their guns. “Happy Purge, Phasma.”

She grins right back, nodding in his direction. “Happy Purge, Hux.”

-

POE

There are certain precautions Poe makes sure to take every year. Things he has to be sure are done, rituals to follow to ensure that March 21st is as quiet and calm for his neighbors as it has been for so many years now. The first is a stop to Mrs. Sanchez’ apartment across the hall, a careful walk through to make sure all of her security measures are in place and that she remembers how to use the gun he gave her three years ago just in case anybody gets in. Just like last year and the year before she makes him wait while she prays for him, and just like last year and the year before she signs the cross on his forehead with her thumbs and gives him her rosary to wear until he returns home in the morning. He kisses her wrinkled old cheek and promises to be there tomorrow for supper so they can celebrate another safe year.

Next stop is the woman that lives in the apartment below his own. Nikita Roberts is a single mother with two boys, Darius and William. Her husband was purged last year; his boss wouldn’t give him the night off of work and Sam couldn’t afford to lose the paycheck that covered their rent and water and food while his wife stayed home with the kids. Poe remembers his funeral, the way everyone had clung to each other and wept for a man whose only crime was needing to support his family. They’d come together as a community to see the family through. Mrs. Sanchez watches the boys during the day while Nikita works her shift at the bank, Mr. Franklin down the hall takes them at night when she works her shift at the diner. Poe comes by every year to check the locks on the doors and to make sure they’ve got good hiding places just in case anything fails. Before he leaves he kisses the boys and hugs Nikita tight, her tight auburn curls pressed to his cheek as she tells him he better come back safe.

After that he returns to his own apartment upstairs. The first thing he sees upon opening his front door is a framed photo of his parents. He reverentially touches their faces as he walks by, silently promising to do his best to protect the people who can’t protect themselves. Just like they did, all those years ago. He makes himself supper, something filling but light, and then moves to his bedroom to suit up. 

Old faded jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt. Same thing as last year. He slips into his shoulder holster before pulling his favorite jacket on, an old brown leather thing that used to belong to his father. Once he’s dressed he drags a duffel out of his closet and starts removing guns. An M&P Bodyguard 380 in one holster, a SIG Sauer P225-A1 in the other. A Glock 21 SF TB is slipped into his waistband at his back, his jacket pulled carefully down over it. Each has a Purge-worth of ammunition ready to go in his backpack, which he grabs on his way to the door. 

Nikita and her boys, Mrs. Sanchez, Poe himself...they’re all targets. They’ve all committed the same sin; they’re not white and they’re not rich. Tonight is not an excuse for them to Purge their aggression, it’s an excuse for the white and wealthy to hunt them down for sport and wipe them off the face of the planet. He hears the numbers every year, sees how more and more people participate and Purge and prey on the poor and defenseless. It’s always the same faces you see on the news trudging back to their high class suburban homes and their high class suburban families. White men in sports coats with pistols and machine guns, white teenagers with baseball bats and motorcycles, white families with semi-automatic rifles driving around in their SUVs picking off the homeless and helpless. 

Well they can fuck off, because Poe isn’t letting another year go by where those motherfuckers get to kill without consequence. He double checks his apartment one more time before leaving for the night, locking the door behind him and saying a prayer as he takes to the street. Somewhere in the city a voice gives the fifteen-minute warning.

-

FINN

“I can’t believe we get to go out this time!”

Finn looks up at Slip, sitting across from him in the back of the truck. His friend can barely sit still. He wriggles and adjusts again and again, seemingly oblivious to the irritated looks of their fellow soldiers as they drive along. The vehicle shudders and shifts around them as they leave the compound and head for the streets, five trucks loaded with men and women laden with weapons and ready to cull the flock. Finn feels like he might be sick. It’s all well and good learning about the Purge in class and training with dummies and simulators, but the idea of actually going out there and doing it is starting to get under his skin. It’s all becoming a little too real.

“Believe it, I guess,” he says with a nervous laugh, peering at his friend from under the thick visor attached to his helmet. They’re all prepped for combat in heavy SWAT gear, bulletproof vests and batons and tasers to control any crowd that gets in the way of their mission. Every truck has a specific destination plotted into its GPS, a building somewhere in town that the men and women around him are meant to clear out. Most of them are in the projects. Each breath Finn takes mists against the visor and heats up the small bit of air he has available to him behind the mask. “Did you double check your gun?”

Slip nods, eyes bright with excitement. “Yeah it’s ready. Should we say the prayer?”

Something churns violently in Finn’s stomach. He clenches his teeth and resists the urge to be sick, mouth watering as bile rises in his throat. “No, no. I don’t think that’s for us. We’re just working, you know?” He swallows hard when Slip shoots him a strange look and rushes to rectify his mistake. “I mean, it seems disrespectful to the citizens out there honestly purging, I feel like it’s their thing.”

“Yeah...yeah I guess,” Slip says slowly. Finn doesn’t know if he buys it, but he doesn’t really care. The city barrels past them at a rapid pace. In ten minutes they’ll be on location. In ten minutes he’ll be expected to put the barrel of his gun to warm, living flesh and pull the trigger.

It’s all down to the numbers. The New Founding Fathers want returns on their investments, want to see real results every year when EMS resumes services once more and the bodies are counted. The more people die, the less crime they see through the rest of the year. The more people die, the less live under the poverty line. He knows the facts, he’s heard them a thousand times and filled them out on forms when taking his aptitude tests. He knows what he’s supposed to believe. He just doesn’t know if he actually believes. 

“Just think,” Slip breathes from across the aisle. “We’re helping to make America great again.”

Finn doesn’t know if America was ever great to begin with.

-

KYLO

Kylo should have turned his phone off. He sees this now in retrospect. He’s only got a few minutes left before the event starts and here he is, listening to his mother freak out from her safe house somewhere in Colorado about how he shouldn’t be on the streets and he shouldn’t be participating in this godless slaughter. He sighs, tugging at the black bandana hanging around his neck with mounting irritation.

“Listen...hey! Can you listen to me? I don’t care if you don’t like it, it’s my right and I’m purging. Just-”

“Ben listen to me. It’s wrong, don’t you understand that? It’s wrong and those people don’t deserve to die because you have some misplaced sense of anger.”

“You’re going to ruin your mother’s campaign!” his father shouts from somewhere in the room, voice gruff. Kylo has made a very firm request not to talk to him, but leave it to Han to make his opinion known anyway.

Kylo can’t help but roll his eyes as he walks through the alley separating his apartment building from the next. A light rain has begun to fall, misting along his face and slicking his hair to his neck. He holds the phone between his cheek and shoulder and his machete between his knees as he reaches back to pull it into an elastic. “Did you think this conversation would work? When it hasn’t worked any year ever?”

Leia makes a small noise of distress. “Ben-”

“That’s not my name,” he grits out, hand tightening around the handle of his blade. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Ben please-”

With a disgusted noise he hangs up and throws his phone violently at the nearest wall. He watches with satisfaction as it bursts into a hundred pieces and scatters along the ground. Fuck it, he’ll get a new one in the morning. 

He’ll never believe the audacity of his family, their complete lack of understanding and their inability to care about his needs. Ever since he was a child he’s had this...darkness inside of him. This need to hurt and break and destroy. He’s swallowed it down for so long, tried to deny this large part of him. He’s suffered. And now the Purge offers him an outlet, a release of the pain. All year he tries to be the good son, to stay out of trouble while Senator Organa tries to change the world. Not tonight.

He _needs_ this. Every day the darkness chips away at him from the inside out, and this is his chance to cut it away. This isn’t about “unleashing the beast” or population control or whatever the propaganda posters read. This is about fixing what’s wrong inside of him. With a deep breath he tugs the black bandana up over his face and smooths out the front of his hoodie. His black military pants are tucked into his black boots and belted tight around his slim waist. He has no guns, no ammo, just the long blade in his hand and his desire to kill.

“You hunting tonight, brother?” 

Kylo looks over at the group of men standing on the street corner, hands full of what appear to be flamethrowers. He narrows his eyes. He doesn’t like the ones that have to cheat, the ones that hide behind weapons impossible to run from or fight off. They won’t have to dirty their hands; they get to stand far, far away as they take down their defenseless prey. He turns his head and walks on without another word.

“Strong silent type, huh?” one of the men calls derisively. “Fine. Maybe we’ll see you later, brother.”

Kylo hopes so. Let them come. He’ll be ready.

There are only five minutes left between him and the hunt.

-

REY

Her feet pound against the ground as the sixty-second count begins. She can hear people nearby chanting along in delight, can practically feel them fingering their triggers with anticipation as they prepare themselves. Her skin prickles and sweat beads across her brow as fear fills every aching space in her, driving her on faster and faster towards what she can only hope is _safety_.

Rey doesn’t need to get far. She just needs to get far enough.

She runs past the bridge, realizing with alarm how many of the men and women who live on the street with her are staying out in plain sight. She wants to scream, to tell them to go farther, hide better, but there’s no time. All she can think of is getting away. 

Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.

She’s out of time. There’s nowhere else to go. Heart hammering in her chest she scrambles up into a nearby tree, hoping the leaves and foliage will obscure her enough to keep her alive. 

The city goes silent, the lights go dim, and an alarm sounds. It’s begun.

-

  
__

__

__

__

This is not a test. This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the Annual Purge sanctioned by the U.S. Government. Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder, will be legal for 12 continuous hours. Police, fire, and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning until 7 am, when The Purge concludes. Blessed be our New Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn. May God be with you all.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to [imsecretlybuck](http://imsecretlybucky.tumblr.com) on tumblr who gets full credit for Hux and his sniper rifle, I was going to make him a snooty rich dude staying in but the image was too perfect to ignore. This is what you get when I spend the day watching the Purge movies while I clean my room. God help us all.
> 
> Join me on [tumblr](http://that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com)!


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